


Fistful of Love

by allsorrowsborne



Series: A Feeling, Undefined [6]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Fisting, Romance, Sex Swing, Wax Play, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsorrowsborne/pseuds/allsorrowsborne
Summary: Eve and Villanelle discover the romance of candles and fisting. All kinds of softness among the kink.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: A Feeling, Undefined [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743235
Comments: 42
Kudos: 117





	Fistful of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Anthony and the Johnsons song

\---

_Count for me, Eve._

_One,_

\---

The webbing of the swing scratches Eve’s back. Her legs are spread a little too wide and there is pressure on the underside of her knees from straps that elevate her legs. Eve isn’t sure if she likes it. Isn’t sure if she will let herself like it. Isn’t sure if she wants Villanelle to know that she likes –

Oh. Wow. Never mind.

This isn’t their first time. Their first time had been weeks ago, hours before Villanelle had left for the airport. Hurried and awkward, far from perfect, hands hitching up a dress, fingers fumbling, missing, finding, backbone slammed against a wall. There had been other times too, when she had returned. A second, a third, maybe a fifth, if anyone’s counting. Few enough to count on one hand, finger by impatient finger. Always the same though. Quick and over. Bodies close and then kept distant. Neither of them speaking about it. Neither of them staying to rest. Don’t say it in case you jinx it? Don’t name it in case she stops? Villanelle had tried to be grateful. Eve had smoked cigarettes alone.

Until, one day, Villanelle described herself as romantic. Eve had scoffed. “You don’t even know what that is.” From sneering to teasing to flirting to daring to challenge accepted. And here they are. Faking Valentine’s day in October.

Stranger things have happened for sure.

Date night by the fire for two?

(Fuck you, Dasha. Fuck you.)

\---

_What’s next, Eve?_

_One, Two,_

The room is dark, for Eve at least. It has nothing to do with dimmer switches, muted lighting, brightness restricted to flickering candles that make shadow-monsters dance on walls. This darkness is just for her. Intimate. Villanelle’s gift.

“I can’t do it,” Eve had said, when she had seen what Villanelle had wanted, gesturing to the ceiling hardware, hooks and chain-link, dangling down from exposed beams. At first Eve had thought it was gym equipment, a pull-up bar maybe.

“You want me to watch you do chin-ups?”

Eve had teased Villanelle, but if she were honest – to watch those arms, that core, in action? – Eve would not have said no.

“No.”

Villanelle had said it instead. She had told Eve what that hardware would hold. Eve had squirmed. Heat and embarrassment. Not a prude, but –

“I’d feel too stupid.”

Stupid had never stopped them before. Villanelle had said that she could help. Grease the pathway from stupid to shameful to desperate to needy to yes-yes-yes. Find a way to ease that slide. Just a question of lubrication. To help Eve get in the swing of things. To help Eve get in the swing.

\---

Eve had gasped when the first drip fell.

\---

_Are you still counting? I can’t hear you._

_One, Two, Three,_

There had been greetings at the doorway, a hung-up jacket, removed shoes, a tour of the flat that had stalled at the mirror, full-length, adjustable, on a stand in the living room corner. Eve had stood before it, looking. Villanelle had joined her, looking too. Echoes of mirrors, reflections of memories, held together in breakable glass.

“I sit here, sometimes, on the floor,” Villanelle had said, as she had slipped hands around Eve’s waist from behind, under her arms, nudging her chin against Eve’s hair, fingers finding buttons in fabric.

“I always watch myself in the mirror.” Hands undoing.

“I try to find you in the reflection.” Another, another. 

“I fantasize that my hand is your hand.” The next had been tricky. 

“That my skin is yours.” Last one.

Villanelle had slipped Eve’s shirt off her shoulders and kissed her neck. Skin had prickled. Eve had shivered.

“I want to watch us tonight, okay? I want you to wear this.”

There had been a blindfold nearby, as Villanelle had sidestepped the need for scarves that needed knots that needed tying that tangled in hair and dug into skull. She had waited for Eve’s nod of permission. Eve had wavered then tilted her head and watched as her reflection had vanished, swallowed by shadow and satin circles over her eyes. One step closer to senselessness.

“I’m going to take you deep into darkness.”

Hands had then removed Eve’s clothing. Slowly slowly. Barely touching. Skimming surfaces. Calling feeling into places that disuse had rendered numb.

—

_Numbers, Eve. What are we up to?_

_One, Two, Three, Four,_

“Tell me what makes an evening romantic.”

Villanelle had led Eve to the bed and laid her down with hand on chest and just as Eve was taking it in – the blindfold, the promise, the bed, the danger, the firm foundation of mattress on muscle – Villanelle had asked the question.

“I don’t know,” Eve had stalled, before recalling the comfort of cliches. “Soft music? Wine? Candles?”

A satisfied smile. Villanelle had found the opening that she had wanted. Living for openings in Eve.

“This is why I fail at your romance. I don’t much like music. I rarely drink. But there is hope, Eve! Don’t give up! I have candles. Here. See.”

Eve could not see it, but she had felt it, had jolted at its thud on her stomach. 

“Don’t worry. It’s not lit.” Wide base. Still unstable. “Not yet.”

The smell of sulphur. The spark of a match. Fire jumping from wood to wick, catching, building. 

“Can I tell you about wax, Eve? It goes from hard to soft to hard in seconds, solid then liquid then solid again. Back and forth at dizzying speeds. So indecisive. Just like you. Ready?”

“What?”

Villanelle had lifted the candle. 

“Would you like me to tell you, not ask you?”

Warm wax pooling in indentations, waiting for the word, yes.

“Yes.”

“Here.”

Eve had gasped when the first drip fell. A splash on her forearm, shock and promise, fire catching between her thighs, molten liquid spilling over.

“Again”

“Here.”

“Again.”

“Here.”

“Again.”

“ _Eve_.” ~~~~

Each time closer, faster, hotter. Each gasp marked by growing pleasure. Each sigh shaped by deeper need. It wasn’t until the wax met nipples – wasn’t until Villanelle wouldn’t listen – wasn’t until Eve understood that she could climax from this alone – that –

“Please, V, please, you know I need – ”

Villanelle’s hand on inner thigh, fingerprinting.

\---

_Breathe, Eve._

_One, two, three, four, five_

\---

Transitions were awkward always, almost treacherous. The way Eve went from hot to cold in a handful of seconds, leaving longing hanging and stupid, already cooling. But Villanelle had moved her quickly, from lying in bed to standing on chair to perching on the edge of the swing.

Eve had needed to lean backwards. A fucking trust fall. She didn’t trust.

But here she is now, leaning, falling, held by straps and wrapped by darkness.

Eve isn’t sure if she likes it. Isn’t sure if she will let herself like it. Isn’t sure if she wants Villanelle to know that she likes –

Oh. Wow. Never mind.

Villanelle slides in a finger. Just one. Slow. Still. It moves differently. She moves differently. Weightless, like fucking in water. Elevated, like flying through trees.

“Count for me, Eve.”

One.

“You like that?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“What’s next, Eve?”

Two.

“Is that better?”

“Fuck, V, please. Move, c’mon.”

“Are you still counting? I can’t hear you.”

“Asshole.”

Three.

“Mmm, okay, mmm.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Numbers, Eve. What are we up to?”

“Fuck you.”

Four.

“Okay, yeah, okay. Fuck. Don’t stop, fuck.”

“Breathe, Eve.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Breathe.”

“Ha.”

Five.

Oh.

\---

“Take off your blindfold. I want to see you.”

Eve does as she’s told for once. Blindfold removed and darkness turns velvet and Eve sees firelight mixed in with stars.

The swing moves smoothly. Villanelle moves surely. Movements that slide Eve onto her hand. A stepping-stone to some place higher. 

Eve sucks Villanelle in as oxygen, deep breaths after years underseas.

A thumb tucks, a hand folds, fingers curl into a fist. Eve cannot see it, but feels it, knows it, takes it, owns it.

And fuck, Eve thought it would feel like violence. And fuck, it feels like home. 

\---

They stay like that for a quite a while. Quiet except for bodies breathing, lube squelching, chain squeaking. Sex and stillness.

It could be some kind of meditation. It could be floating on ocean waves. It could be an out-of-body experience, tethered to earth by Villanelle’s hand.

Something other than softness or hardness, safety or danger, captive or captor, movement or rest.

“You’re holding my heart.” Eve doesn’t know where her words came from.

“I know.”

Bodies binding, boundaries dissolving, until they’re vanishing, absent, gone. No Eve. No Villanelle. Just this all-consuming feeling, feeling something like peace.

There are kisses on Eve’s thighs, perhaps, but that is periphery. She is center, with Villanelle. She thinks she might have died and ascended.

“You still with me, baby?”

“Always.”

“Want to go higher?”

Eve laughs then gasps as the laughter rolls through her body, dragging on knuckles. Breathes. Recovers. “You can do whatever you want.”

\---

The swing moves. Just a little. No rush.

“Move with me.”

Villanelle rocks smoothly, humming softly, summoning up some deeper sensation, buried in the center of Eve. It builds slowly, moves within her, over ankles, mouth top tingles, reaching out past tips of fingers.

“I’ve wanted this, Eve.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ve wanted to show you how I would hold you.”

Eve twists a little on Villanelle’s hand, gasping as knuckles catch on muscle. Pulse and pressure on her G-spot, or maybe her A-spot, and who fucking knows or cares for the alphabet, cares for anatomy – even Eve with her interest in arteries, in all things opened by that hand – knowing nothing, only being, only doing, only knowing she’s coming undone.

“More.”

“I’ve wanted to show you how I am gentle.”

Another twist of fist, a fraction, and Eve’s world explodes into fragments. They catch them together and ride them like waves. Rocking, twisting, stretching, opening, moving together somewhere beyond.

“Don’t stop.”

“I’ve wanted to show you – “

Rain at the window. Shadows on ceiling. Eve’s fire engulfing the room. Villanelle’s hesitation.

“Say it, please. I want you to say it.”

“I’ve wanted to show you how I love.”

Climax climbing, taking them over with its promises. Twisting, tingling, winding, tightening, spiraling, spiraling. Uncontainable within skin. Eve jerks, stiffens, spasms. Villanelle holds still. Eve can break every bone in her hand. Coming now, if that’s what you call it. High in a sex swing, fist in her cunt. The only time she’s ever felt spiritual, orgasm rolling up Villanelle’s arm.

—

At some point, Villanelle helps Eve down. And Eve knows that she will never do anything, never want anything, never love anything more than this.

The hand that folded, fist that formed, finding different ways to ask, to feel, to open. Now unfurling, flexing fingers, extending as a hand to hold.

They move to the bed. Villanelle cuddles close, adjusting covers, tracing dried wax over stomach. “Romantic, huh?”

Eve laughs. “You know the only people who would think that are?”

Villanelle smiles lazily, blinks sleepily, anticipating the warmth of the word. They say it together, testing the waters, settling in.

“Us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is much softer than I usually write, so please comment/kudos if you like it.


End file.
